Ghosts of the Past (14 page)

The pasta, even though heavy on the garlic, was excellent.

Ferguson kept the bottle of wine flowing and immediately changed the subject of conversation to an inquiry about Courtney’s life history. She had accommodated the change in dialogue quite nicely, and they spent the next thirty minutes in a very pleasant discourse, actually getting to know a lot about each other.

They split a cheesecake with fresh raspberries, and both ordered coffee, with Ferguson spiking his with a shot of Amaretto. Reality returned to the table.

“Do you know the name of the woman I inherited the letter from?” Ferguson asked.

“I haven’t the slightest idea who she is or what her name is.”

Ferguson was almost certain that he had never mentioned Uncle Max’s name to either Karl or Courtney, and the fact that Courtney did not correct the reference to a female, was enough to convince him completely.

“I have an idea where we can go for the next couple of days to help sort out where we go from here,” said Ferguson.

“I say, where we go from here, is to Switzerland. The two of us.” Courtney responded.

Ferguson was not about to get into that discussion again. “We can discuss that matter further, but first we need to get to someplace safe, where whoever is after us can’t find us.”

“What about our company up at the bar?” Courtney discreetly shifted her eyes toward the bar to make sure their ‘friend’ had not vanished. It was obvious now; the only guy who hadn’t moved for the last hour was the Hispanic fellow. Unfortunately, he was still there.

“We need to lose him, and I’ve got another thought on that as well. First, we both need to get a change of clothes, and then we can disappear. I will leave, while you stay and have another drink. I’ll run home, throw some clothes together, and come back here. We’ll leave from here, go to your house, and get you some things for the next couple of days. In fact you might want to get enough to cover you for longer.”

“You know, you were right. It’s the Mexican-looking guy, he’s still at the bar. Are we going to let him tag along?”

“Yeah I noticed he hadn’t left. Once we leave your place, we’ll go in my car. At some point we’ll take a four-wheel-drive detour that he can’t handle. That should fix him.” Ferguson pushed himself away from the table, “Can you pick up dinner?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

“Thank you ‘me lady’. Ferguson bowed his head. Do you have a cell phone?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse.” Courtney retrieved her purse and rummaged through it for the phone and a business card. “Here’s a business card, the number is on it.”

“Thanks, keep it on. I’ll call you in about twenty minutes when I’m headed back.”

“You’re coming back, right?” Courtney got the sudden suspicion of an abandonment coming on.

“In the words of General MacArthur, I shall return.” Ferguson stood up from the table. “He looked intently into Courtney’s beautiful green eyes, “I promise!”

The young man left the table and then walked out of the restaurant. Garagua saw the check delivered to the table, but Courtney Lewis appeared to be perfectly happy to remain in her seat, and in no hurry to leave. In fact, the waiter returned with more coffee and a cordial glass of liqueur.

His dinner of grilled salmon had been superb, and the Margarita’s had left Garagua more than relaxed. He was glad to see she was in no hurry to bolt. At this point of the evening, he figured when she decided to leave, she was headed home. That meant when she got back to her place, he could pass her off to the boss for the evening, and get some shuteye.

He and Bolivar had gotten almost no rest from the time Rocca had summoned them yesterday evening until now. They had hit the ground running ever since the Rocca International Gulfstream #3 had touched down at Louisville International airport early that morning. There was time on the flight to gather and assimilate enough information on Courtney Lewis to get them started on the basic surveillance, which they had managed to accomplish earlier in the day. That had allowed Bolivar time to do more in-depth research on Ms. Lewis, while Garagua had been following her to work and beyond.

That research had netted them credit card numbers, bank and investment account information, club and organization affiliations, and other specific personal data that Bolivar loaded into his laptop and processed through a proprietary database software that created a comprehensive profile of Courtney Lewis and a history of her activities for the last few years.

Garagua knew that program had probably been completed earlier, and that Bolivar had most of the late afternoon and evening to relax and catch up on his own sleep. Soon it would be his turn to trade off, and get enough sleep to tide him over. It did not require much to keep him going, but at this point, his tank was empty.

Ferguson had no idea of what to pack for Switzerland in May. He did know, he would undoubtedly be in the mountains, so he prepared his clothing selections accordingly. As he hastily stacked clothes on his bed, he wasn’t sure, but something was just not right. He stopped, listened for a few seconds, looked around the room, and then shook his head as if he was certain he was going crazy.

He stuffed everything he laid out into a Rossignol oversize, ski duffle bag, and added what was left on hangers to an L.L. Bean garment travel bag. He froze again, and had an inexplicable feeling he was being watched, or that something was not as it should be. He thought his paranoia was starting to get out of hand. Nevertheless, paranoia or not, it was time for him to get out of this house for a while. He shut down all the lights that weren’t on timers, he turned the thermostat to ‘off’, picked up the two bags, and warily peaked into the garage before scurrying to his car. He was in and out of the house in less than fifteen minutes. He would be back to Courtney in another five.

Chapter
9
 

May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.

Toby Shutt was finishing off the last vestiges of black coffee in his University of Kentucky plastic thermos. He made a mental note that he would have to fill it up one more time to keep him going through the paperwork that had consumed him since returning to the station. The reports, write-ups and never-ending documentation that had to be accounted for in any investigation, let alone a triple homicide, never ceased to amaze him. It had been a long day.

Unfortunately, after the paper trail was finished and filed, the real job of detective work began. It was going to be an even longer day.

Detective Shawna Hammer, the newest, and first black female detective in the Homicide Division, stepped into Shutt’s cubicle and dropped a large 9 x 12 manila envelope into his
IN
box. “I.D.’s and bio’s on the deceased and preliminary crime scene results from Forensics. You can thank Danny for putting it together so fast.”

“Thanks for dropping it off.”

“My pleasure. If there’s anything I can help you with, let me know.”

“Thanks Shawna, I will. If you don’t mind, can you drop these off with Michelle and tell her to file these, and put these with the evidence boxes?”

Shawna grabbed the two stacks of files from Shutt’s outstretched hands, nodded and walked away. She respected Shutt and appreciated how he had treated her with the same respect ever since she had hit the ground running two months ago. However, she was also cognizant of, and resented the impression that many of the other detectives had, that she was merely a product of affirmative action fulfilled. The reality was, she was a damn good cop, and her’s was a well-deserved merit promotion.

Shutt moved everything in the middle of his desk off to the side, and proceeded to spill the contents of the envelope in front of him. There were three tabbed file folders, each labeled by last name, then first. Inside each folder was whatever Danny Woods, the JCPD’s resident computer wizard, had been able to scrounge up from his amazing electronic investigative skills. He started with the folder marked
Karl,
Johann,
PhD.

He scanned over the faxes and reproductions of info from the Department of Motor Vehicles, the U of L Faculty Directory, Social Security Administration, a credit history report, and bank loan and mortgage applications. He settled on a resume with a single page of handwritten notes from Danny paper clipped on top.

Shutt took in the highlights
:
Emigrated
to
U.S.
in
1947
from
Munich,
Germany.
Graduated
from
University
of
Pennsylvania
in
1950.
Graduate
studies
at
Ohio
State.
A
PhD
in
1956.
Teaching
assistant
while
going
to
school.
Came
to
University
of
Louisville
in
1962
to
teach
German
and
European
History.
Wound
up
Dean
of
the
College.
Impressive
service!
He’s
an
old
fart.
No
wife,
no
kids.

He referred to Danny’s observations in the notes of no immediate next of kin, and a concern that his cursory search of some available German database had turned up no record of a Johann Manfred Karl in Munich, or anywhere else for that matter, that came close to the age of the deceased. He reckoned, that given the timing of the date he left Germany, that it would not have been unusual for a former German soldier or Nazi party member that settled outside of Germany to change their name or identity. He speculated that Karl could have been either, or records of him could have easily been destroyed in the war.

The other two files were rubber banded together, again with a note from Danny.

These
two
were
easy!
Their
prints
were
on
file.
Both
of
these
clowns
are
real
winners!
I’m
not
sure
it
means
anything,
but
these
two
have
some
history
with
anti-Semitic
and
Neo-Nazi
groups.
You
might
check
out
an
Aryan
race
or
Nazi
connection?

Danny

Again, Shutt perused the rap sheets and history of Jimmy Syron and Jay Nieron. Typical dead-end backgrounds. Neither one finished high school. The obvious drug involvement, followed by a long list of misdemeanors
,
and finally the prison-time felony. Both did time in Eddyville Penitentiary, were paroled, and began affiliations with a long list of undesirables.
Blah,
blah,
blah
 
.
 
.
 
.
Losers!

The forensics and ballistics reports were the last of the paperwork in the file. It simply confirmed what he had deduced from his visual of the crime scene. The slugs pulled from Syron and Nieron did not match either one of the guns they were carrying, and in fact neither of those weapons had been fired. The stiletto was responsible for the neck wound to Karl, which had caused his death. Prints lifted from the handle of the knife belonged to Syron. Shutt tapped his fingers on the open file, drew a deep breath, and while exhaling looked up, staring blankly at the wall in front of him as if drawing some divine inspiration.
For
reasons
unknown,
Syron
killed
Karl,
and
then
was
systematically
shot,
along
with
Nieron;
by
a
third
party
that
appeared
to
know
what
he
was
doing
when
it
came
to
firing
a
handgun.

Shawna stuck her head in to the cubicle again, interrupting Shutt’s train of thought, causing him to unconsciously close up the folders in front of him. “By the way I forgot to tell you before, we cross-matched prints on one of your ‘stiffs’, Jimmy Syron. His prints were on a knife recovered from a botched robbery attempt in the east end earlier this week; a house off Chenoweth Lane. The description on that blade is similar to the one we found on him at the Karl house. The victim, he actually fought off this Syron character, was a guy by the name of…” she glanced at a sheet of paper she was carrying in her right hand, “Ferguson. That’s it, Matt Ferguson.” She nodded affirmatively and walked away.

It took a few seconds to register, but the mental image of the young man, in the street in front of Dr. Karl’s house, reaching out to shake his hand, materialized clearly in his memory… “
I’m
just
a
friend
of
Courtney’s.
Matt
Ferguson.”